A Chemical Defect
by TheMidnightOwl
Summary: John keeps having nightmares of Sherlock's death. Desperate to get to sleep, he makes a call to someone he thinks can help distract him. It's the best kind of distraction he could have hoped for, and the one he was least expecting.
1. A Chemical Defect

**This little gem came to me on another sleepless night. What better to do when you're trying to sleep than write about other people trying to sleep? Hope you enjoy it! Please comment if it makes you think of anything worth sharing.**

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A Chemical Defect

John awoke in a flurry of limbs as he sat up in his bed, his own scream echoing in his ears. Blood, so much blood, Sherlock's dark crimson life fluids painting the unforgiving pavement where his body collided with it at St. Bart's, adding a sense of macabre to the already gloomy day. It wasn't so much as Moriarty had won; it was that John had failed. Failed to protect him, failed to observe, failed to help. And then Sherlock died right in front of him.

So much blood.

With trembling hands, the former soldier grabbed his phone on the nightstand. It took him a minute to manage hitting speed dial. In addition to his quivering hands, he wanted to know his voice would be steady, too.

"Hello?" Came a familiar voice at the other end.

"S-Sherlock," John rasped, voice shaking despite his efforts.

"Another one?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded in the dark, aware that Sherlock could not see the action. Knowing him, he could feel it in the pause. "It – it was a b-bad one."

"Which one?" John's nightmares were usually one of a few reoccurring ones. Formally consisting of any memory or hellish imagined event in Afghanistan, they now consisted solely of memories: when he got shot, when Moriarty kidnapped him – usually resulting in a different ending – or Sherlock's fall three years ago. They could vary in intensity, but reliving Sherlock's fake suicide always proved the hardest to recover from.

When the consulting detective came back, John thought the nightmares would cease. Yet still without fail, they plagued his dreams, resulting in many nights of a shared bed. It was the only way he could effectively calm down. Neither of them complained.

"You jumped," he answered, voice cracking. On a normal night that would be the extent of the conversation. Words did little for either of them. Instead, Sherlock soothed him back to sleep by means of reassuring touches and kisses, a level of intimacy and sentiment present that John never thought the man capable of. Irene Adler caught Sherlock's attention once. John saw plainly that Sherlock had, in whatever way, felt some form of attraction towards her. But in the end, he ripped her apart. _"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side,"_ Mycroft had quoted for him. He seemed to resent the idea of human attachment.

His first night back in Baker Street, John's screams resonated so loudly from his room on the above floor that the detective had rushed to his aid. Finding no intruder, Sherlock easily deduced a nightmare, and crawled into bed to comfort the disturbed doctor without hesitation. Not a word was spoken between them, but nothing needed saying. He caught on to the nightly pattern quickly, and stopped waiting until John awoke in hysterics for permission to enter his bed. Often times Sherlock would still be awake when John emerged from the throws of the frightening images. His own sleep patterns had not deviated but he did not want to leave John alone.

But he wasn't there tonight. Mycroft had requested his mind alone on something top secret. John was not permitted to accompany him. The detective stubbornly refused, stating simply that he would not agree to any case without his friend, but Mycroft presented the matter in such an intriguing manner that he agreed. Just one night, he had said, two at the most. If one happened, and they both knew one would, John was to call him. Sherlock didn't know what he would say – social interactions were not his strong suit – but he would not let John think he had to suffer alone. He wasn't leaving him like that, not again.

John did not breathe during Sherlock's pause. "Where are you now?" He asked after three excruciating seconds, "my room or yours?"

He wouldn't ask how Sherlock knew his room was a possibility. "Yours," he admitted.

"Are you facing the door or the wall opposite?"

"Neither, I –" He panted heavily as his vision turned red. "I'm not – lying down."

"Lie down and face away from the door." John obeyed, lying on his side, trying to focus on his breathing. Red still swam in his vision. When Sherlock next spoke, his voice lost its instructive tone, and the unintentional condescending harshness it sometimes held, even with him. A velvet baritone spoke to him now in a way that warmed his core.

"Bend your knees a bit and bring your legs up. Rest your left hand next to your face, palm up. Your right hand should be by your side palm down but I'm assuming it's currently holding your phone to your ear." John let out a single hysterical huff, and cursed himself inwardly for not maintaining control of his vocal cords. His eyes still stung with the blood blurring his sight. "Easy, John," Sherlock cooed, "now close your eyes." He let the silence hang for a moment while John adjusted, heart still fluttering in fear.

"You've memorized how I sleep?" John huffed lightly, voice shaking a little less. Something like that had to equate to something along the lines of a compliment from the detective.

"This isn't how you sleep," Sherlock explained, "This is the position you take when a nightmare wakes you. The first night I spent with you I positioned us like this. You've replicated it in these situations ever since. Are your eyes closed?"

"Yes."

"Good." He rested, and then his voice was just a whisper. "I'm right there, John. I'm not away with Mycroft helping him solve some political foreign tensions. He didn't make up a case he knew would convince me to go with him to a boring-as-all-hell meeting between countries so as to exploit my superior ability to read people." John smiled. "I'm right there next to you, whispering in your ear.

"You've just awoken from your dream. Right now I've moved closer, and am partially on top of you to help calm your shaking and whisper in your ear if necessary. My knees are tucked up into the backs of yours. My left arm is under your neck. It fits there so nicely due to how low you're resting your head on the pillow right now. You can't decide if you want to hold onto it or not, so your hand is fidgeting."

"I do," John pitches, assisting in painting the picture. Remarkably, it's working; he can feel the ghost pressure of Sherlock's knees and thighs against the backs of his legs. He wants this to continue.

"Okay, then, tonight you can make up your mind. You're gripping my arm tightly, holding on for dear life. My right hand is resting on top of yours. I brush my thumb along it until you reach up to inspect my face. You cannot simply turn to look because you're afraid you'll see that gash in my head and see me drenched in blood. Whether or not it's really there you can never be sure with your sight alone because your eyes have betrayed you on more than one occasion, but visual stimuli are what we primarily rely on for information. You cannot stand the possibility. No, you opt for touch instead. You inspect my skin first, then run your fingers through my hair to make sure it's not matted with blood. They linger here a bit longer because you enjoy running them through my hair and need something enjoyable. You brush them along my cheekbones as you put your hand down again; a distinguishing feature, you're making sure it's really me after seeing me die in your dream not so long ago. Perhaps you just like them, too. I like to think of that gesture as a compliment, personally.

"Now that you've reassured yourself it's me and I'm not injured or a hallucination, you permit yourself to breathe." A pause in his flow of thoughts, "breathe, John." The soldier released the breath he had been unaware of holding. The exhale shook, but relieved the sting in his chest. Sherlock waited until his breathing softened to continue.

"You put your hand down, and I cover it with mine again. This time I run my fingers in between yours and hold it tightly. Sometimes you're still not quite free of the dream, mumbling incoherently in hope of escaping the violent images, but not tonight. Tonight you're silent, except for your frantic breathing, which you're focused on slowing before you begin hyperventilating and thus causing a whole new set of problems."

He noticed that his tone had flattened again, his pace increasing and sounding more like his usual manner of deduction in order to keep up with his observations. But this wasn't for him. This wasn't part of a game. There was no one to show off to. This was to ensure John did not have a stress-induced anxiety attack while he was not there. Softening his voice again, he resumed his thoughts.

"I pull myself closer to you. Seems impossible, given our proximity, but I manage. My arms tighten around you." Another half-second break, "I kiss your cheek. Softly, at first; admittedly I'm never sure if you're going to object. But it helps. You muscles relax when the contact is there. So I do it again. Never too firm, you won't respond positively to anything too abrasive. They're always slow, lingering on your cheek or temple or hair, trying to induce a calm state. Sometimes your breathing evens out in a few minutes. Sometimes it takes longer." John can actually hear the gears in Sherlock's brilliant mind turning as he deduces exactly how this night would be playing out had he been there based on context clues John wasn't even aware he had given. "Tonight it takes longer."

The doctor could not believe this tactic was working. Even more so, he found himself once again completely taken aback by the detective's unparalleled observation skills. He himself had never noticed a pattern to Sherlock's methods of soothing him, but suddenly he was thankful for them. Every movement and touch Sherlock described in that velvety whisper, he could feel, whether or not he chose to mime them. The gentle brush of his thumb over his skin, the lacing of their fingers, the tightening of the embrace, and every kiss from impossibly soft lips against his skin, damp from sweating in the night. Balancing the phone on his face, he rested his right arm by his side as it was meant to be to feel Sherlock's arm over his as well, accompanying the nonexistent strokes from his nimble digit. Sherlock had specified where his lips fell against his features, but not how often. John found himself imagining more comforting brushes from those supple lips than he normally received.

"The more your breathing slows, the less effort it requires to regulate. Gradually they even out and soften. The tension in your back, your legs, your chest, your arms, it all resides. You're coming down from the unpleasant high. The more you relax, the more my hold on you slackens. You whimper in protest – yes I do hear those – but it's necessary. Any tension I hold within my own body, yours may begin to reflect again. So I uncoil with you. Your arms go slack first, then your legs and feet, your back and neck, and finally your chest, and you can breathe comfortably again. I often wonder if you're conscious of the fact that you synchronize your breaths with mine, but never dare to ask in case it is a subconscious move. Bringing that to your attention could shatter its effect."

He was aware. In these moments of desperation of mind, he clung to Sherlock in every way imaginable. He was dependent on the other man to fall asleep now. And when he awoke, broken and traumatized, the brunette sleuth was his anchor, his sedative. For three years the reoccurring image of Sherlock's death had kept him awake each night, eroding his sanity. Upon hearing Mycroft's request the other day, he feared that without the detective's consoling touches, the brutal memories would win. Sherlock was instead distracting him with more pleasing sensory illusions.

"I slowly lower myself off of you to rest at your side. The haunting images are fading, releasing their grip on you, so it's safe for me to cease shielding you. Probably better, in fact; makes it easier to inhale and relieves that claustrophobia associated with tension. Apart from that our position remains the same. My thumb is still brushing yours, and it will continue to do so long after you've fallen asleep again. The touch is feather-light, barely there, but you can still feel it. Your fingers twitch every now and again in response, trying to will more pressure, perhaps. I don't oblige. Stronger stimulation will keep you from sleeping. I'm trying to return you to a resting state."

John was fighting to stay awake now. Counterproductive to Sherlock's cause, but he knew that as long as Sherlock could sense that he was awake he'll continue to talk. He's let a few hints of his own state of mind during their time spent together slip through his thought stream. He wants to hear more of Sherlock's own personal thoughts. It's becoming more and more difficult to remain conscious, as he does not open his eyes in fear of no longer feeling the detective's ghost pressed against his back, stroking his thumb, kissing his hair. He knows the kissing was supposed to have subsided by now, but this was part fantasy, too.

"You push closer to me and sigh deeply. Sometimes that sound makes me wince. It's pained and tired and stressed but at the same time it's reassuring. You're going back to sleep. You mumble my name to yourself –" does he really do that? – "and then you're asleep again, breathing softly and rhythmically again. I squeeze your hand gently. Now it's my turn to relax."

John wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but he was too tired to speak. He felt Sherlock's chest rising and falling against his back, a template for his own breaths. For the first time in a very long time he favored the dream over reality, and let it overtake his mind. Sherlock wasn't really there, but his voice was real and the scene he described was very real. So what if the touches he currently felt weren't technically there. They had been, and would be again. That was the promise Sherlock was making him now as he talked him through this night. With one last imaginary kiss to his hair, John drifted asleep again, not to be plagued by another nightmare this night.

Sherlock smiled to himself as he listened to John's breaths slow on the other end of the line. He heard the familiar mumbling of his name, and then his best friend was asleep, his phone still on and pressed to his ear. He suppressed his chuckle at the thought of John asleep with his phone resting on his face. If he stayed still all through the night, as he usually did, he'd likely wake up with it in the same position, and perhaps a mark on his face.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock whispered into the phone one last time, and then hung up. Some nights were best spent with him continuing the motions and whispering in the sleeping man's ear to ensure he evaded another night terror. But tonight he would sleep soundly on his own.

_Love is a dangerous disadvantage, _he had once said. He did not know if this was love – he had never felt it before – but when John finally settled back to sleep after fits of screaming and crying and sweating, he could not find a reason why this could possibly be a negative thing.

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**Please comment! I'd love to hear what you thought!**


	2. Prologue (added)

**I told myself this was going to be a one-shot. But, as it turns out, the more I was brought back to this story by everyone's lovely comments, the more I found myself visualizing what that first night's encounter would have been like, how exactly these two would have ended up in bed together and how Sherlock could be compelled to do something so uncharacteristically sentimental. I couldn't take it anymore and decided to write up a prologue. So to all of you guys who asked if I could continue it, I kind of cheated. It's technically a continuation, just in the wrong direction. Hope you guys enjoy it! Thanks so much for all of your wonderful comments! I hope this little installment is just as pleasing as the original.**

**[xxx]**

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Prologue

Busy London streets. People. Cars. Sounds. Lights. They all whizzed by him as he ran as fast as his trained legs would carry him. Out in front, a long coat flapped elegantly in the wind, held in motion securely by the shoulders of the brilliant man it rested upon. Mop of curls bouncing with each stride as they ran from the cops. Or possibly towards a specific destination. John could not be sure in that moment with adrenaline flooding his veins.

He remembered Sherlock Holmes.

That first case was one of his most poignant memories. But that's all it was now; a memory. Something to look back upon fondly, before remembering why it was only a thing of the past, and then delving into an incurable depression. The first few months had been the worst. As time past, the wounds did not heal, but they scarred over a bit. Thinking back to those days of watching the detective work, sometimes even helping him piece it all together, irritated the mental scabs. But he needed to. He needed to remember. And then one day he didn't need to remember.

Because Sherlock was back.

John had been mad at first. Furious, in fact. His fist cracked against Sherlock's pale face, square in the lip. Then again on one of those impossibly sharp cheekbones. As much as he wanted to, though, he could not bring himself to do it again when he saw Sherlock's lip bleeding. It just reminded him of the man's broken and battered face, his head split open on the pavement, blood everywhere. So much blood. John never wanted to see it again.

Sherlock had let himself get hit. When John's fist stopped, and he gazed into his eyes, saw the look of sheer panic on his companion's face, bordering on mania, he finally spoke.

"It's okay, John."

They left. Went back to John's new flat just outside the city. Sherlock hated it. Demanded that they go back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson let them in after hugging the detective for a solid minute, crying and thanking every star in the sky that he was alive. She swatted his arm, of course, but lightly, as the bruises on John's left hand told her very well where the cuts on his face had come from. She could verbally abuse him for lying later. Key in hand, Sherlock took the steps in twos as he usually did, and entered the flat the two used to share for the first time in three years.

Cleaned, packed, and unnaturally spotless; just as John remembered leaving it on the day he told Mrs. Hudson he was moving out. He took what was his, packed up what wasn't in case she decided to rent it out to another party, and left. He hadn't spoken to her much. Come to think of it, he hadn't spoken to really anyone in the past three years. All of his city friends just reminded him of Sherlock.

Sherlock sat down on the sofa and gestured for John to sit as well. He remained standing. The detective let the issue drop and began divulging the more important matter at hand: the circumstances of his survival. The suicide was fake. That was obvious by the man's presence. But to hear the tale, to hear how the sleuth avoided death despite genuinely jumping off of the roof of a hospital building… well, it was just so Sherlock.

Because if anyone could pull it off, it was Sherlock Holmes.

After gaining assurance that the flat was his again if he wanted it, Sherlock asked John to stay. He wanted to say no. He wanted to tell the detective that you can't just let your best friend think you dead for three years and expect everything to be okay when you come back. He wanted to shout, and reprimand, and scold, and maybe even verbally abuse, just to get Sherlock to cringe, or show some sign of humanity. Because this was cold. This was so cold.

But what came out was "yes."

Too emotionally drained to go back home for any sleeping clothes, he shed his jumper and trousers, content with sleeping in just his t-shirt and pants for one night. Tomorrow he could go back to his flat, collect his belongings, and find a way to get out of the lease he had signed. But that could wait until tomorrow. After he'd had a night to sleep on the idea that Sherlock was really back and not just a hallucination.

[xxx]

_"No, stay exactly where you are."_

_"Alright, alright-"_

_Reaching. Reaching out. But the further he reached the further his friend became. Reaching back. A plea, a desperate plea. _Save me. _Save him. Just save him, dammit._

_"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"_

_Please don't do this._

_"This phone call, it's um,"_

_His voice was trembling. Was it his or Sherlock's? Was it both? Crying. Genuine tears. Please don't cry, Sherlock. I'm here. _

_"It's my note."_

_We can still fix this. Just come down. Put you're hand back up. Reach for me again. I'll help you down. Please, Sherlock. Whatever you need. However you know to fix this. Just let me help you. Let me in for once so I can help you. _

_"That's what people do don't they?"_

_Not you. Don't you dare. Just stop it. Come home. Sherlock._

_"Leave a note."_

_Lips trembling. Definitely his own voice cracking. "Leave a note when?"_

_Blood. So much blood. Where is his pulse? No, he can't be dead. Sherlock Holmes is immortal. He's the best of us all. We were going to have a lifetime together. He was supposed to beat Moriarty, prove to everyone how brilliant he was._

_"He will outlive God trying to have the last word."_

_Come back. Come back to me. There's blood everywhere. Am I bleeding? No, not my blood. Sherlock's. His hair is matted and face is red. The pavement is drenched in crimson, concentrated to blackness. Vision blurring. Must not cry. The picture is fuzzy. Where is his pulse? _

_Red. Everything is red. Except for a pair of piercing blue eyes. But the blood is tainting them, too._

_"Goodbye John." _

[xxx]

Sherlock's eyes are fixated on his microscope when he hears it. Quite possibly the most painful and desperate cry, like a wounded animal, and it's coming from upstairs. But the voice is a familiar one. Snapping to full attention, Sherlock pushes himself up and out of his chair, running up the stairs into the room above. Had someone broken in and hurt John? They'd regret it.

The detective burst through the door of John's bedroom, charged and prepared for an altercation. But the room was empty, except for the army doctor in the bed, still screaming. His eyes were closed and his body tensed.

"John," Sherlock approached the bed and shook the man's shoulder, carefully at first, then harsher when he did not wake. "John, wake up! Wake up!"

The soldier snapped awake violently, sitting up and inhaling sharply. His fingers tangled in his sandy hair and clenched down, tightening, tightening, returning him to reality through a stinging sensation. His lungs labored irregularly; Sherlock did not like the raspy quality of his respiration. His hand remained on his friend's shoulder as he gazed at him in concern, not daring to call his attention until it could be risked.

Finally, when the doctor's breathing leveled out, Sherlock addressed him again. "John?" his friend did not turn to look at him. "Are you alright?"

"You jumped," John whispered in horror at the dark shapes below the blanket, "You jumped. I couldn't - save you - wasn't enough to - you - you had no pulse, Sherlock. There was so much - blood. Blood everywhere. Your eyes…" sobs choked off the words that attempted to follow. Sherlock saw all of the warning signs of a severe anxiety attack threatening to shatter the doctor's body and mind: chest rising and falling erratically in hyperventilation, tremors in the hands, constricted pupils, frantic heart rate, blood pressure climbing, his pulse visible in his neck, strained and labored breathing.

Sherlock remembered what anxiety felt like. It was not something he wished for his friend to experience. Particularly because of him.

Sitting on the bed, he kicked his shoes off before pulling the soldier down by his shoulders and swinging his legs onto the bed, slipping them under the blanket for convenience should the other man desire it. John reflexively bent his knees, and the detective's fit into the backs of them nicely. When John attempted to flee, he constricted his arms around the smaller man and pulled him tight, his back pressing against the detective's firm chest. One long, slender leg slipped atop his to secure him by the hip. When breath returned to the smaller man, Sherlock moved his arm to cover John's, and took his hand, lacing his fingers in between his friend's, palms both facing down. He felt John clench his hand to hug them back, his left hand reaching out to grab the arm below his neck. The tightness of his grip was desperate. Sherlock felt a strain on his heart.

His chin rested in the crook of John's shoulder, trying to comfort him so the sobbing would cease. They appeared to only worsen. After a moment of evaluation, Sherlock planted a chaste kiss on John's neck.

The soldier froze.

They both sat perfectly still, able to hear their own blood pulsing behind their ears. When John began breathing again, Sherlock did as well, and he was relieved to discover that the older's breaths did not sound quite as labored. He repeated the action once more, freezing up again after. The second pause was not as long or as tense as the first.

The third touch of Sherlock's surprisingly supple lips fell to the back of John's neck, when his own began to ache. John relaxed into it, and rolled his shoulder to bring Sherlock closer, seeking out the touch again. He felt Sherlock's thumb brushing soothingly along the top of his own, the touch so faint he wondered if it had been occurring for long. Part of him wanted to ask, but he repressed the desire to, in fear of Sherlock not even being consciously aware of it. If brought to his attention, he might stop. He couldn't stop.

John was tired. So terribly tired. But frightening images kept flashing and dancing behind his eyelids the moment he attempted to close them. Sherlock's piercing eyes, glazed over and lifeless, his face drenched in blood. Blood everywhere. Crimson horror. When he opened his eyes again, the dark room was tinted red. The scream caught in his throat.

John would relax, and begin to feel as if he were drifting to sleep. But as soon as the tension left his body, it would return again, with him gasping and sobbing and screaming on occasion, plagued by horrible visions Sherlock could only assume were still of him lying dead in a pool of his own blood. He would just hold him tighter, not saying a word, only "sssh"ing in his ear at most, before planting another kiss to his sweat-dampened skin. He wanted to brush the hair out of John's eyes for him, afraid of them irritating the sensitive organs, but did not dare remove his dominant hand from John's grasp.

The night progressed in a vicious cycle of relaxation and relapses for what felt like hours. Sparing a quick glance at the clock on the nightstand, Sherlock discovered it had been, in fact, two hours since he had first charged into the room. John felt heavier now; relaxing again. Except this time, the tension did not return to his muscles a few minutes later. His breathing slowed further than it had all night. The stifled sobs gave way to even, shallow breaths. The fingers desperately clutching the flesh of his left arm, tucked comfortably under the gap between the doctor's neck and the pillow, loosened slightly.

John was finally asleep.

With one last kiss to the doctor's sandy hair, Sherlock allowed himself to relax as well.

This whole ordeal had been the result of his faked suicide. Despite knowing clearly now the trick behind it, the falseness of what he had seen, John's mind was incapable of deleting or replacing the imagery. For him, Sherlock had well and truly died. Killed himself right before his eyes. John's already fragile psyche had been further damaged by his actions. And he could blame no one but himself.

But he would do everything in his power to fix the soldier again.

[xxx]

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**Please leave any comments. To receive any little thought that a piece might have inspired in anyone is the biggest compliment a writer can receive. And who knows? Since I've just taken it out of being a one-shot, being drawn back to it over and over again just might get me thinking about where else this could go. (Basically, if you'd like to see this continue, ****_say something._**** I write for myself but I write fanfictions for the community.)**

**Thank you again so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed it!**


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